A Narrow Margin of Error (13 page)

Marcie sighed heavily, but made no comment. Instead, she rose and left them without another word.

When she’d gone, she heard Sam let out a long, low breath. Hillary smiled across at him. ‘All right, Sam?’

‘Guv. I don’t think she looked at me once while she was here,’ he said, more in relief than irritation.

‘I don’t think you count, in Ms Franks’s world, Sam.’

‘You gave her as good as you got, guv,’ Sam said with
admiration
.

Hillary grunted. She wasn’t so sure about that. In fact, if Ms Franks had called her ‘Mrs Greene’ one more time, Hillary might have taken very voluble exception.

The trouble was, now that she was no longer DI Greene, she
was
Mrs Greene. And the only thing she could do about that was revert to her maiden name.

Which would make her a Miss.

Abruptly, Hillary gave a short bark of laughter. Sam smiled uncertainly.

‘Well, the ice queen has a motive, guv. No matter what she says,’ Sam said with growing eagerness, ‘I think Rowan Thompson put the kibosh on her relationship with Sally. And no matter what she says, I think she knows the two of them slept together. And she did keep quiet about it at the time.’

‘Oh, she’s a new lead all right,’ Hillary agreed. ‘When we get back, be sure to add your notes to the murder book right away.’

‘Yes, guv.’

‘And find me a current address for Sally Jenkins.’

Sam grinned. ‘Yes, guv.’

Once back out on the streets, however, and traipsing back to the multi-storey car park, Hillary wondered why Marcie Franks should have been quite so forthcoming. After all, there hadn’t been any sniff of a motive for her in Gorman’s original
investigation
. So why had she put herself on the police radar by volunteering so much information now?

For some reason, Hillary was uneasily reminded about gift horses. But did she need to seek out the Greek bearing gifts, or did she need to check out the equine dental equipment?

Dwayne Cox took the train to London and, knowing the city well, had no trouble finding the Cosy Fox café in Camden. Taking a seat and ordering the vegetarian option, he people-watched for a while and flirted half-heartedly with the waitress, until Marcie could join him.

When she arrived, he smiled across the table at her grimly. Wordlessly she drew out her chair and slumped down.

‘You look like something no self-respecting cat would even dream of dragging in,’ he said. ‘For pity’s sake, why don’t you put on some make-up, or get a decent haircut at least?’

‘I don’t doll myself up to flatter the likes of you,’ Marcie shot back with a cool smile. ‘Just like I don’t wear high heels or thongs, or anything else that the male sex would like to see us women neutered with.’

‘Huh?’

‘High heels are bad for the spine. They force women onto their toes, hobbling their movement and damaging their physiology, just for the sake of making it look as if we have longer legs, thus reinforcing the doll-like image you have of us. And as for thongs – please.’

Marcie suddenly grinned ferociously, and Dwayne laughed.

‘Good to see you, Marce. So what’s up?’ he asked.

‘I’ve had the filth in. Just like you said I would. A rather tasty redhead, with a string-bean satellite in tow.’

Dwayne nodded. ‘What did you tell them?’

‘Nothing they didn’t already know, or could easily find out.’

‘So why do you want to meet now?’

‘I just thought we should clear the air a bit. Make sure we’re both clear on what’s at stake,’ she said flatly.

Dwayne speared a piece of asparagus and chewed on it thoughtfully.

‘You didn’t wait to order, then?’ Marcie said sardonically and, catching the waitress’s eye, ordered the same vegetarian option and a cup of herbal tea.

‘I thought we’d already decided to lie low for a bit,’ he pointed
out. ‘You didn’t need to drag me here just to ram home that message.’

‘Yes. But I know you. You’ve always got an angle. Besides, you like to have your cake and eat it too,’ Marcie said flatly.

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning, you won’t be happy to have Rowan’s case opened again, and having the police sniffing around will make you doubly nervous. You like to think you’re one of the Wild Bunch, but you like to feel safe, Dwayne. You always have.’

‘Again, meaning?’

‘If you thought you could feed me to the cops to save your own worthless hide, you’d do it in a nano-second. I just want to make sure that you realize that wouldn’t be a good idea, that’s all.’

Dwayne smiled. ‘You worry too much.’ And she knew him so well, damn her. ‘Besides, it’s not as if either one of us has to worry. We didn’t kill Rowan. Right?’ he asked, spearing a sautéed piece of aubergine and looking at her closely.

‘Well I certainly didn’t,’ Marcie agreed coolly. ‘Did you?’

‘Nope.’

Marcie nodded. Just then the waitress brought her dish, and for a few minutes they ate in silence.

‘I did just wonder though,’ Dwayne said at last. ‘That last, er, present I sold to Rowan. You didn’t spice it up a bit too much, did you?’

Marcie smiled grimly. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ And when Dwayne looked at her questioningly, she smiled that wide, humourless smile again. ‘It was a pair of scissors that did for our little Rowan.’

Dwayne nodded. ‘Yes. I know. But what if he was feeling
somewhat
, shall we say, incapacitated at the time?’

Marcie sighed and sipped her tea. ‘Just what have you been fantasizing about now? Why would I want to help someone else bump off the annoying little sex-maniac? Now, when you do want the next delivery?’

‘Not for a while,’ Dwayne said quickly, suddenly looking
alarmed. ‘Not until the police have finished nosing around. I thought all that was settled.’

Marcie suddenly laughed. ‘I know, and I agree. I just wanted to see the look of fear on your face. You really are a spineless little shit, Dwayne.’

Dwayne smelt the acrid scent of sweat seeping out from his armpits and swore softly under his breath. Amused, Marcie continued to eat, then added slyly, ‘But aren’t you worried that all your neurotic little bunnies will desert you when their candyman suddenly loses his sweetness?’

Dwayne grunted. ‘You always were a first-class bitch, Marcie.’

‘And don’t you forget it,’ Ms Franks said shortly.

T
he next day, with Vivienne Tyrell still being ‘too busy’ to accompany her with work on the Thompson case, Hillary collected Jimmy from the HQ and, in a still distinctly
floral-scented
Puff the Tragic Wagon, headed north, for the outskirts of England’s second biggest city.

Brum, as the locals called Birmingham, was relatively
unfamiliar
territory to Hillary, but not to Jimmy Jessop.

‘The missus came from Kingstanding way. We used to take regular trips up see her family when her mum was still alive. And to do some shopping, naturally,’ he drawled.

‘Oh, naturally,’ Hillary agreed, indicating to overtake a trundling lorry containing something that needed a warning diamond panel on the back of it. She gave it a wide berth.

‘Reckon I know my way around the Bull Ring better than most,’ Jimmy continued ruminating. ‘Mind you, it’s been some years now since I was up there. So with the way they’re building on anything that doesn’t move these days, I dare say I won’t recognize a bloody thing,’ he muttered darkly, staring out at the passing scenery.

May was nearly upon them, and although the day was so far overcast, the hedgerows were white with hawthorn blossom and the roadside verges frothy with cow parsley.

‘What can you tell me about Solihull, then?’ she asked. ‘Rowan’s parents still live there, according to the latest updates.’

‘Posh area, or so my missus always said. Although that could mean anything, mind you, from millionaires’ mansions to four-bed
semis. My wife’s family made church mice look like Richard Branson, bless ’em, so anything that wasn’t the slums was posh to her.’

Hillary nodded. ‘So long as you can point me in the general direction, I won’t complain,’ she promised.

In the end, the childhood home of Rowan Thompson was
relatively
easy to find. As they climbed out of the car and looked around, the road reminded Hillary of those to be found around north Oxford. Cherry trees, some still flowering, were the norm, with fair-sized gardens fronting fair-sized houses.

‘Posh enough,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘The Thompsons had three children, right?’ she asked, although she didn’t really need reminding. She’d read up on their file before heading home yesterday.

‘Right. One son now lives in Australia, where he manages a sheep farm the size of Wales. The daughter married something well-heeled in publishing,’ Jimmy confirmed.

‘I’m impressed you remembered it all.’

‘Don’t be, guv. When I dealt out the background checks I handled most of the Thompson family myself.’

‘No skeletons in the family closet that you could find?’

‘Not so’s you’d notice.’

‘Any sibling rivalry I need to know about?’

‘Don’t think so. Rowan was the youngest – he and his sister seemed to get on, and the elder son was older by some years and was mostly grown up and fledged before our vic could have got too many complexes over who Mummy loved best.’

‘Do I detect an edge of cynicism in your voice, Jimmy?’ Hillary asked with a grin, as he opened one side of a pair of black wrought-iron gates and let her precede him up a short gravelled driveway.

‘Who, me, guv?’

They were expected of course, since Hillary had made a very discreet phone call to them on being handed the case, setting up this initial interview.

The door was opened by a woman in her sixties, who was doing everything possible to appear to be a woman in her forties, and mostly succeeding. A very good and no doubt expensive facelift could only just be discerned by the barest of faint pale lines just behind neat ears. The earlobes were adorned with a gold and emerald set of studs. Hair that nature would have rendered silver by now was instead coloured ash-blonde, and shaped in a becoming, rather sixties-style geometric cut, that gave the
impression
of retro-youth.

She was dressed in a white trouser suit, with a russet-coloured blouse and chunky, gold jewellery.

‘Mrs Thompson?’ Hillary said, and held out her ID.

Rowan’s mother was roughly Hillary’s own height, but was much leaner, which gave her a rather straight-up-and-down boyish figure that spoke of many hours in a gym, probably with the services of a personal trainer thrown in.

‘Yes, Amanda Thompson. Please come in.’ Her voice had the pronounced regional twang that only a life-time native of Birmingham could achieve. ‘Go on straight through – my husband’s waiting in the lounge. He took the day off work – and if you knew how much of a workaholic he is…. Well!’ She shrugged her thin shoulders and led them through to a large, wooden-floored lounge area.

Hillary had never been a fan of minimalism and to her the white-painted room seemed bare and unwelcoming. But her attention was quickly fixed on the man rising from a black leather chair.

He looked a much older version of his son Rowan. Not
particularly
tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and big, wide-open brown eyes. When he smiled and held out his hand, Hillary had an
overwhelming
sense of the man’s charm.

‘John Thompson. How do you do.’ His own accent came from further north somewhere – Newcastle maybe.

‘John, this is Hillary Greene and … er … sorry….’ She looked at Jimmy helplessly, who quickly gave his own name and selected
a chrome and black leather hard chair that was tucked away against one wall. There he took out his notebook and somehow, in that minimalist expanse, almost managed to disappear. It was quite some feat, and Hillary, at least, could appreciate it for the gift it was.

‘Please, sit down, er….’ John Thompson hesitated a moment, her lack of recognizable rank clearly throwing him a little.

‘Please, call me Hillary,’ she said quickly. ‘I used to be detective inspector before joining the CRT. But I think it’s easier if we’re all on first name terms. As I told your wife on the phone, I’m in charge of taking another look at your son’s case, so please feel free to call me anytime, or ask me any questions that you want to.’ She wouldn’t necessarily answer them, she added a silent, mental rider, but she’d at least keep them in the loop as much as she could.

John Thompson nodded and waited until his wife was seated on a matching black leather settee before resuming his own seat.

‘Firstly, let me add my condolences on the loss of your son. I know it’s been many years, but I also know that’s totally
irrelevant
,’ Hillary eased into the interview carefully. ‘I take it you’d like a quick overview of what’s been happening?’ she added.

Amanda Thompson made a compulsive, jerky movement, but said nothing. Out of the corner of her eye, Hillary could see her chewing on her bottom lip in a nervous habit that she seemed unaware of.

She kept her focus on John, who nodded briefly. ‘That would be appreciated, yes,’ he agreed simply.

‘Well, so far it’s very early days, but I’ve spoken to Rowan’s landlady at the time of your son’s death, as well as all those who shared rooms in the house with him at the time.’

‘Inspector Gorman seemed convinced it was one of those living at the address who was responsible for our son’s death,’ John said, the lift in his voice at the end of the sentence making it more of a question than a statement.

‘I agree they’re a top priority, but I’m also looking outside that
circle as well,’ Hillary said, keeping her comments truthful, but broad enough to not give much away. Although she could
understand
and respect a victim’s family wanting to be kept up to date, it was not her job to be specific.

Especially since, for all she knew, Rowan’s killer might be in the room with her right now.

Although Gorman had found no trace of any member of the Thompson family being in Oxford on the day Rowan died, Mrs Thompson’s non-existent alibi consisted of being home alone while her husband was at work. But John Thompson had worked in an environment where it would have been easy for him to slip away for a few hours unnoticed. So neither of them was ruled out yet, even though Gorman’s initial investigation had shown no major rifts or problems in the Thompson family unit.

But Hillary, as was every copper, was well aware that statistics showed that most murder victims were killed by family and friends, and just because you couldn’t find a problem in those nearest and dearest to your victim didn’t mean it didn’t exist.

‘Your son … Rowan, touched a wide range of people, and the motive for his death might not lay in the house where he was lodging,’ Hillary said, choosing her words carefully.

John Thompson smiled at her briefly. ‘You needn’t pussyfoot around us,’ he said, casting a quick eye at his still-silent wife. ‘We know that Rowan was what my granny would euphemistically call a bit of a scamp. Especially with the women.’

Hillary nodded, and shot a quick glance of her own at the dead boy’s mother.

She was still chewing nervously on her lower lip. Her hands, clenched in her lap, bore many rings – mostly in gold, diamonds, and emeralds. Hillary doubted she found much comfort in all the expensive bling, though.

Her son might have been dead for more than a decade, but she had the feeling that for Amanda Thompson, time had tended to stand still. Was that what her pursuit of perpetual youth was all about? If she could somehow stop the time from passing, her son
might yet still be young and alive as well somewhere? She was no psychologist, but she wouldn’t have bet against it.

‘Has anyone approached you during the past years since Rowan’s death?’ she asked gently. ‘Old friends, perhaps, wanting to talk, or asking for a little keepsake? Something that didn’t seem to mean much at the time, but now strikes you as odd?’ she asked quietly.

She had always had the sense that Rowan’s death had been impetuous and deeply felt. Whatever had motivated the killer had come from the heart and the wellspring of human emotions, not from a cool and calculating mind. And killers of that ilk
sometimes
obsessed about the act itself, or could simply not let go of the victim. They felt this need to remain close by, seeking out contact with the victim’s family and friends, and often tried to insert themselves into their victim’s now-defunct life.

But both Amanda and John Thompson were shaking their heads. ‘No. We had the usual sympathy cards, and telephone calls. But no one ever approached us.’

‘And the last time you saw Rowan?’

‘Our anniversary in October.’ John again answered the
question
. ‘He came down to spend the weekend. Gave us a silver-engraved ice bucket.’

‘We still have it,’ Amanda said, then looked startled at the sound of her own voice.

‘Did he appear different in any way? Nervous or pensive? Maybe quieter than usual?’ she pressed.

‘Not Rowan,’ John said, with that smile that could charm a snake from its basking rock. ‘He was as full of himself, and of life, as ever.’

‘You knew his girlfriend, Darla?’

‘She was only the latest in a long line, I’m afraid,’ John said. ‘Rowan mentioned she liked making clothes, and she was going to make him some sort of outfit for Christmas. He thought it was funny – he said he’d probably look like a bad Adam Ant wannabe, but he’d wear whatever it was, if only for a laugh.’

‘He didn’t mean to be cruel,’ Amanda Thompson said, with anger in her voice, and her husband shot her a worried look.

‘I didn’t mean to imply that he was, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘But we both know he didn’t always think before he spoke. Or acted.’

Hillary thought that both of the Thompsons probably
understood
all their children better than most. But in the end, what good had it done either of them?

‘So, as far as you know, Rowan was acting and feeling as normal the last time you saw him?’

‘Yes. We told all this to Inspector Gorman,’ John Thompson said.

‘I know. I’m sorry if it seems to you that we’re just going over the same old ground,’ Hillary apologized. ‘Did your other son or daughter visit Rowan at Oxford at all?’

‘No. Rex was already in Australia by then, and Therese was always too caught up in trying to be a fashion model to ever leave London. Luckily, she grew out of that after a couple of years of catalogue work,’ John said with a wry smile.

‘Is there anything you want to ask me?’ Hillary asked simply, hoping there wasn’t.

‘Will you get them?’ Amanda Thompson said abruptly, her voice hard and sharp. And Hillary noticed a small red splash of colour on her bottom lip that owed nothing to lipstick.

Amanda Thompson had drawn blood. Her own.

‘I’ll do everything I can, Mrs Thompson,’ Hillary said.

And meant it.

Outside, Jimmy Jessop stretched shoulders that felt tight with tension and let out a long, heartfelt breath.

Hillary knew how he felt.

‘All the years I’ve worked, it’s always the families that get to you,’ he said. ‘I thought working cold cases might mean that the years in between would make it easier. For them, and for me. But it doesn’t work that way,’ he said, somewhat ungrammatically, but Hillary knew instantly what he meant.

‘Think she drinks?’ Hillary asked abruptly. She felt no need to elaborate, and sure enough, Jimmy’s response was almost
immediate
.

‘The hubby thinks so. Did you clock the way he kept an eye on her?’

Hillary sighed, and walked back to her ancient but obliging car. They drove back to Oxford in silence.

It was nearing lunchtime, so Hillary dropped Jimmy outside the Black Bull for a pie and a pint, before driving the few hundred yards back to HQ. After talking to the Thompsons she herself had no appetite.

She walked with her head down and a thoughtful frown on her face, and jogged down the wide concrete steps into the basement where the CRT hung its hat, her mind still on Rowan Thompson.

Just what had he done to earn him that pair of scissors in his gut? Was it really a case of one sexual conquest too far? Or one outrageous stunt that someone, somewhere, had been unable to forgive? It seemed, on the face of it, to be the most likely
explanation
. The drugs angle was too tenuous, and there certainly couldn’t be any monetary motive. Although his parents had plenty, he himself had been a debt-ridden student. And yet…. The jealous boyfriend or the disgruntled sexual partner just didn’t ring true to her for some reason. There was nothing she could put her finger on, and she certainly wouldn’t voice the thought out loud to anybody else on her team without something solid to back it up with. But she knew from experience that, a mere hunch or not, it didn’t pay to ignore her instincts. But it was hard to pin down exactly where the problem lay.